


The Formative Years

by theDeadTree



Series: Hawke Stories [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Family Drama, Father-Son Relationship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-08-31 13:18:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8580061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theDeadTree/pseuds/theDeadTree
Summary: The experiences of Malcolm Hawke as he struggles to raise his eldest as a child, a preteen, a teenager, and a young man.





	1. 9:16 Dragon

There had always been a part of Malcolm that knew this day was coming. It had always been a part of him he’d made a point of ignoring, preferring to live in the illusion; but it was there all the same, gnawing at the back of his mind. Despite how hard he tried, he never could quite shake the cold dread from his mind. He never could bring himself to ignore the questions that had plagued him almost constantly from the instant Leandra confessed to him that she was pregnant all those years ago.

He’d noted that Guillaume must have been very pleased to have an heir so quickly. Then Leandra had shaken her head and with a small, sly smile, confessed that the child was his. Ever since then, since they’d fled Kirkwall, since they’d begun their lives constantly moving across rural Ferelden evading templars, since the very moment Garrett had been born, Malcolm lived with a constant anxiety over what his children had the potential to be. As the years dragged by, he’d dared to hope that, maybe, there was a chance they could get away unscathed. Maybe magic wouldn’t ruin the lives of his children like it had his.

It was a fantasy, a dream of an ideal that would never come to pass.

He knew. He knew what was coming the second he rounded a corner to see Leandra sitting on the front steps leading to their house, head in her hands while a pair of four-year-old twins chased each other, blissfully unaware of their mother’s distress. He knew, he just didn’t want to admit it.

“Leandra!” he called her name, jogging over to her. “Lee, what’s wrong? What happened?”

Her head snapped up at the call of her name, revealing a tear streaked face. For a moment, she just stared at him before bowing her head once more, staring aimlessly at the blackened hem of her dress. She ran her fingers along the burned material, as if she wasn’t quite sure if it was real.

“G-Garrett…” she murmured after what felt like an eternity. “Garrett, he… he wanted to go out and play with some of the other children, I told him _no,_ because he still had chores to do and he…”

Slowly, Malcolm’s eyes followed her line of sight down to the burned dress. For what felt like forever, he just stared, the dawning horror of the situation only making everything worse. Though she hadn’t told him exactly what Garrett had done, it was easy to deduce what had transpired.

He didn’t believe it.

He didn’t _want_ to believe it.

Not Garrett. Not _now._

Magic had plagued him his entire life, it had caused him to be torn away from his home and sent to Kirkwall in the first place. It had forced him into confinement, and when he managed to escape that, it had forced him and his family on the run, living constantly in fear of ever being discovered. Was it too much to hope that, somehow, his son would be spared from that? Was this the Maker punishing him for fleeing the Circle, for choosing to live as an apostate? Had he doomed his children to forever live through the same hardships by acting so selfishly in his youth?

Apparently, yes.

And Malcolm _hated_ himself for it.

“Are you alright?” he murmured, his voice low and hoarse.

Leandra nodded tearfully and waved him off. “Yes, I’m fine, I’m fine.”

“…and Garrett?” he asked slowly, knowing that he wasn’t going to like the answer.

The moment he asked the question, Leandra leapt to her feet, pacing away from him, looking increasingly stressed with every passing second. Slowly, cautiously, Malcolm approached his wife, not quite sure how to go about comforting her. Eventually, she made her way over, leaning into him and allowing the tears to flow freely.

“He ran, I tried to chase after him but I couldn’t- …Maker, Malcolm, he’s _gone,”_ she wailed. “He’s gone, I lost him, he’s out there all by himself and he’s probably so _scared-”_

“I’ll find him,” Malcolm told her gently, holding her close as she sobbed into his chest. “Lee, I’ll find him. I’ll bring him back.”

“And what then?” she demanded, pulling back. “What do we do _then?_ Call the templars?”

Immediately, Malcolm’s lip curled at the very thought. After everything he’d been through, everything they’d gone through to get away from Kirkwall, all the efforts he went to _escape_ the Circle of Magi, she was suggesting they send their own _son_ back there?

“No,” he said firmly.

“Mal-”

 _“No,”_ he repeated furiously. “We’re not doing that to him. If we send him to the Circle, we’ll never get him back.”

“So _what?”_ she shot back. “He’ll stay here? Be an apostate like his father?”

Malcolm shrugged at that. “Worked out for me pretty well so far.”

“You’re a grown man, Mal. You chose this. Garrett-”

“Is _not_ going to the Circle,” he snarled.

“And I suppose _you’re_ going to teach him everything?”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t _know_ everything,” she argued. “You can’t-”

“I’m the best option he has,” he told her flatly. “You know that.”

Or so Malcolm thought. After all, he’d been raised in the Circle himself – what could they possibly have to teach Garrett that he wouldn’t know himself? It wasn’t so left-of-field an idea.

Leandra shook her head, trying to sniff her tears away. “We can barely hide _you._ Garrett’s too young, he’s not in control. They’ll _find_ us, Mal. They’ll find _him._ They’ll _kill_ him.”

“So you want to just give _up?”_ he asked, eyebrows rising in disbelief. “You’re not even going to _try?”_

 _“I don’t know!”_ Leandra had to stop herself from screaming, turning away from him and throwing her hands up in the air. “I don’t _know_ what to do! I just want him to be safe.”

“And you think he’ll be safer in the Circle than with me?”

Leandra let out an exasperated sigh and slumped back down to the ground. “It’s not about _you,”_ she told him harshly. “It’s not about if you can teach him. It’s about him being _hunted down_ like a _dog_ for the rest of his _life.”_

“Leandra…”

“We’re never going to settle, are we?” she asked dully, although the question was mostly directed at herself. “We’re never going to have a normal family. Our children are never going to know a place as home.”

“We don’t need that,” Malcolm reassured her gently. “We have each other. We have the children. Wherever we are is home enough.”

She didn’t move, didn’t turn to face him. “I don’t know what to do. If he goes to the Circle he’ll be safe, but we’ll lose him. If he stays with us, he’ll be an apostate and spend his whole life hiding and we could end up losing him anyway.”

For a long, tense moment, neither she nor Malcolm deigned to say anything. There was nothing either of them _could_ say. He knew what Leandra was getting at. She’d agonised over it before, but never quite to this extent. She feared for their children. She feared they would grow to resent the life thrust upon them. She feared that, one day, she would lose them all, one way or another. Now that Garrett was a mage; all those anxieties had been brought to the forefront of her mind.

“He doesn’t deserve this,” she whispered hoarsely after what felt like an eternity. “He’ll be fugitive. He’ll spend his entire life on the run. He’ll never be anything else. Is it so reprehensible to want more than that for him?”

Slowly, Malcolm placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “The Circle isn’t the answer, Leandra.”

Her expression hardened at his words. “Then what _is?”_

For the first time, he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to comfort her. They both knew what she said was true. No matter what they did, Garrett would be forced into a situation he didn’t choose. That was the harsh reality of the situation; Garrett was a mage and there was nothing they could about it.

“He’s just a boy,” she mumbled in between shaky breaths. “Maker, Malcolm, he’s an _eight-year-old boy.”_

“I know,” he sighed, resigned. “I’ll find him.”

When Leandra didn’t respond, Malcolm withdrew, turning heel and heading back down the path the way he came, away from the house and back towards the village. He’d already wasted enough time arguing with Leandra; an argument he knew they would continue to have even after he found Garrett and brought him back home.

Cold dread gnawed at the edges of his mind as he walked, then jogged, then ran, back towards the main cluster of buildings that made up the village. He didn’t know what had happened, exactly. He didn’t know how public it had been, if anyone other than Leandra had witnessed what Garrett had done. It didn’t matter either way. Malcolm knew he couldn’t risk it.

They’d leave, again, in search of a new life in a new village with new people who didn’t know them. It would be easy. They’d done this countless times over the past eight years. It was expected that they would have it down to a rhythm by now.

In truth, he didn’t know what to do any more than Leandra. There weren’t any guidelines for how to be an apostate – let alone an apostate _and_ a parent at the same time. He felt sick to his stomach; after all, if Garrett was a mage, what was stopping Bethany and Carver from inheriting magic as well? Just how much had he put his family at risk by his very nature?

 _Maker, please let him be safe,_ he found himself silently begging.

The main body of the village seemed no less busy than any usual day, which allowed Malcolm to breathe a small sigh of relief. Maybe no one had noticed anything. Maybe they’d be able to leave silently, with no one any the wiser. Maybe this time relocating wouldn’t be the complete disaster it usually was.

He could only hope.

“Malcolm!” a voice called out suddenly.

Immediately, Malcolm himself skidded to a halt, whirling around in search for whoever was trying to get his attention. Eventually, his eyes fell upon Roydon, and he forced a small smile as the man approached him.

“Is everything alright?” Roydon asked a little breathlessly, an expression of friendly concern etched upon his face. “I saw your son come tearing through here a moment ago.”

Malcolm nodded stiffly, still forcing a smile.

“Just a little family drama,” he said, airily gesturing back in the direction of the house he’d come from. “I don’t suppose you happened to see which way he went?”

Roydon rubbed the back of his neck before turning to look at the hills that lay to the east of the village.

“He took off towards the hills – I tried to stop him, ask him what’s wrong, but he wouldn’t hear it,” he said finally, before finally glancing back at Malcolm. “Are you _sure_ everything’s fine? He seemed distraught.”

Malcolm gave an innocent shrug and a small, wry smile. “Yeah, yeah, it’s all fine. Don’t worry about it.”

The instant the words were out of his mouth, Malcolm winced. He was being a little too casual about it, he realised, when he saw that Roydon’s concerned expression remained unchanged. That concern would quickly turn to suspicion, and then he’d investigate.

They would have to leave as soon as possible. If not today, then by dawn tomorrow, at the very latest.

Quickly, he thanked Roydon before sprinting off towards the eastern hills, hoping and praying that Garrett hasn’t gone too far. He was careful to keep to the path, believing that Garrett wouldn’t have strayed too far from it. He can’t have been thinking very clearly when he ran, and Malcolm was hoping that blind panic would’ve curbed his naturally more curious and adventurous nature, at least a little.

He didn’t know what else to do. He didn’t know where to even begin looking. If it had been any other day before now, he would have half a mind to simply go back home and wait for Garrett to return on his own. But the situation was different now, and Malcolm knew he couldn’t risk it. Not without putting himself and his son in far more danger of being exposed than he was comfortable.

He stumbled up the path, loose bits of gravel sliding beneath his feet, the occasional rock giving way beneath him. Malcolm forged on ahead, determined not to let the fear of falling discourage him. There were a million places Garrett could’ve gone, and he didn’t have time to search them all.

And then, from behind a tree, someone quietly sobbed.

Carefully, trying to remain as quiet and as calm as possible, Malcolm approached, rounding the tree to find Garrett sitting hunched in the dirt, his knees pulled to his chest and an endless flow of tears streaming unchecked down his cheeks.

Malcolm couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief at seeing his son largely unharmed; aside from some scrapes he must have gotten upon tripping over on the hazardous terrain.

“Garrett,” he called gently.

At the call of his name, Garrett bolted upright and scrambled away, mumbling disjointed half-sentences in his panic.

“G-get… don’t…”

Malcolm held his hands up in an effort to seem harmless; to reassure the frightened boy that he was not here to scold him. He remained where he was, knowing that Garrett would likely bolt if he came any closer.

“It’s me,” he called softly. “It’s just me.”

“I- I didn’t mean…” Garrett wailed, not bothering to fight back the tears that flooded down his face, “it- …it was an accident…”

“I know,” Malcolm murmured in reply. “It’s okay. It’s going to be fine.”

“N-no,” he mumbled, still moving back. “No. It’s _not_ fine. It’s _not fine!”_

“Garrett-”

“I didn’t know I could- …I didn’t know what… it just… she’ll be so _mad…”_

“Your mother?” Malcolm asked, although he was reasonably sure of the answer.

Garrett nodded silently, still refusing to meet his father’s eye.

Malcolm sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, trying to think of the best way to deal with the situation. Leandra had been distraught, yes, frightened and confused over what this meant for them, for their son, but she wasn’t _angry._ If she was angry at _anyone,_ it was Malcolm, for all the same reasons _he_ was angry at himself.

This was his fault. It was _his_ magic, _his_ bloodline, that had done this. For years, he’d hoped against hope that maybe he could get away from that. That maybe his children would have the opportunity to live without the constant threat of either templars, the Chantry, or demons.

It was irrational, he knew that. He’d also understood the risks when he and Leandra first became involved with each other. Stupidly, he didn’t heed those warnings. Didn’t stop to consider anything beyond the immediate present. The Maker could punish him as He saw fit, as far as he was concerned. He never thought that punishment would extend to anyone other than himself. Now his son was paying the price.

He didn’t deserve it.

He didn’t deserve _any_ of it.

“Garrett, she’s not angry. Just worried. She knows you didn’t mean it.”

“I can’t…” he wailed, head in his hands. “I don’t… she’ll be… it was an _accident.”_

“She isn’t angry,” Malcolm repeated, although he didn’t know what good that would do. “You took her by surprise, that’s all.”

For the longest time, there was no response.

“Hey,” he said, gently clasping Garrett’s hands, a gentle blue glow emanating from his palms as he healed the small grazes on Garrett’s knuckles. _“Hey._ Listen to me. You’re allowed to be scared when these things happen. It’s scary, but it’s okay. It’s not the end of the world.”

Garrett grew strangely still, watching apprehensively as the scratches on his hands quickly scabbed over and faded back to normal, with no trace of them ever being there. Slowly, Malcolm released his grip, allowing Garrett to withdraw, where he immediately began rubbing his hands like he wasn’t quite sure they were real. He’d never reacted that way to Malcolm healing him before; he’d never had any reason to. But now, he was suddenly that much more aware of magic, and that much more afraid of it. No longer was it simply his father’s party trick; it was part of him as well.

Nothing terrified Malcolm more than that thought.

“Harlan said mages-”

“Never you mind what Harlan says,” Malcolm cut across him sharply. The last thing Garrett needed was any kind of anti-mage rhetoric going through his head. “That boy is a pig-headed idiot and I don’t want you around people like that anymore.”

“But-”

“Garrett Hawke. _Nothing_ is wrong with you. The Maker made you precisely as you are and you have _nothing_ to apologise for. Anyone tells you otherwise, blow a fireball up their ass. Understood?”

“I can’t do that!” Garrett protested, looking aghast at the very suggestion.

Malcolm grinned mischievously. “You can if I teach you.”

Garrett shook his head. “You told me not to fight if I don’t have to. You said.”

He did have him there. Malcolm smiled a little at his son, wondering how he had managed to raise a boy like the one before him. Although he couldn’t help but be surprised _that_ was the lesson that had stayed with Garrett, of all things.

“I _did_ say that, didn’t I?” he mused quietly. “Alright, no fireballs. Probably too noticeable anyway. Give them a small electric shock instead. Pretty much harmless.”

Garrett didn’t respond.

Malcolm sighed heavily. “Wow. Tough crowd today. That usually gets at least a giggle.”

“I don’t want to hurt people.”

“No one’s saying you’re going to hurt people.”

“Mages hurt people,” Garrett insisted.

Malcolm let out a small, quiet groan and rolled his shoulders back. “Only the ones who can’t control themselves.”

Garrett withdrew even further at those words, clearly terrified that he was one of the weak mages. After everything that had happened. Malcolm honestly couldn’t blame him for thinking that. It was _wrong,_ but he understood why. Using magic for the first time was always a messy affair. Malcolm knew that from experience.

After a silence that seemed to last for an eternity, Garrett sniffed. “Are you going to send me away?”

Before he could stop to think, Malcolm found himself taking his son up in his arms and hugging him to his chest tightly.

“No,” he said, sounding far more certain and self-assured than he actually felt. _“No,_ Garrett. We’re not going to send you away.”

“What about the templars?” Garrett asked, the rising panic too all clear in his tone. “They’ll come, they’ll take me away…”

“They won’t.”

“But you don’t _know-”_

“I do. They won’t find you. They’re not going to take you. I won’t let that happen.”

Slowly, warily, Garrett looked up. “Wouldn’t they have to take you, too?”

Malcolm smiled. “I suppose they _would,_ wouldn’t they? Nothing to worry about, then. Looks like you’re stuck with me. _Forever.”_

For the first time that day, the corners of Garrett’s lips twitched with the beginnings of a small smile at Malcolm’s expression of mock-horror. That, at least, was progress.

 _“Magic was meant to serve man,”_ he murmured after a brief pause, drawing his son close. _“And never to rule over him._ Do you know what that means?”

Garrett gave a noncommittal shrug and not much else. Malcolm let out a mildly exasperated sigh.

“I’ll take that as a _no,”_ he sighed. “You know you really need to pay more attention to the sisters. This stuff is important.”

“It’s _boring.”_

“Maybe so, but that doesn’t make it not important,” Malcolm insisted. “The Chant can’t be all rebellions and dragons.”

Immediately, Garrett’s eyes widened in awe. “Are there _dragons_ in it?”

Malcolm had to choke back a shot of laughter at his son’s reaction. Mentioning dragons was always a sure-fire way to appeal to the boy. High dragons, drakes, dragonlings, Archdemons, it didn’t matter. Every time the subject came up, Garrett would appear, so stealthily he almost appeared wraith-like, eyes wide and watching on with a keen interest, carefully listening to every word. Occasionally he’d work up the courage to ask a few questions here and there, although they always had to be careful not to indulge him too much or it would quickly become a rapid fire of questions about every possible aspect of the creatures.

Malcolm would always catch him playing outside later, snarling and snapping at anything and everything as he circled the house, fighting off imaginary knights come to steal his treasure horde. Garrett was never the brave knight; he was only ever the dragon. Knights weren’t fun, apparently. Malcolm expected there would be more actual fire involved in those little adventures now. He’d have to supervise more closely.

“You’d know if you’d paid attention,” he sighed wistfully. “But that’s not the point. What it means is that your magic should serve _you._ That _you_ control _it,_ and not the other way around. You only let it do what you want it to do.”

Slowly, he nodded, still saying nothing. Malcolm took that as a sign to press on with his first lesson.

“But that doesn’t mean you should use it however you like. You have a responsibility to use it for the benefit of others. _Magic_ doesn’t make you a good or bad person, Garrett. How you _use_ it does. Understand?”

Once again, the boy nodded slowly, still struggling to wrap his mind around everything his father had just told him. Malcolm suppressed a sigh. He didn’t suppose that was out of the ordinary – Garrett was still an eight-year-old boy, after all. It was a lot to take in at once, and he couldn’t expect him to remember all of that.

“If you’re ever lost, or scared, or confused about your magic and what to do with it, just remember,” he said gently. “Magic will serve that which is best in me. Not that which is most base.”

That seemed to help more than almost anything else he’d said.

“Come on,” he said softly, while gently taking Garrett’s hands and helping him up to his feet. “Let’s go home.”


	2. 9:20 Dragon

They’d been in Lothering for a week, and the chaos of their most recent move was finally settling into a nice, comfortable normal. Malcolm stood on the porch, watching the sun slowly dip below the horizon, trying to savour the moment. The golden light that came streaming through the gaps in the clouds, only to fade to red, to pink, to purple, and finally to a darkening blue. The cool breeze that drifted through the trees, gently rustling leaves. The sound of the village, far away enough to be safe, but close enough not to raise any eyebrows. It was quite possibly the closest to a perfect home the Hawke family had gotten.

Rural Ferelden had never seemed so peaceful.

_Thump._

“Uh!”

“Ha, Bethany tripped! You’re so clumsy!”

“I am _not!_ I just didn’t see-”

“Didn’t see that great big stack of stuff? _Bethany’s going blind!”_

“Be quiet, Carver. Who left- _…Garrett!”_

He closed his eyes and smiled to himself. Yes. This was what family life _should_ be. He inhaled deeply, taking in all the smells that came on the wind. This place was perfect. He wanted to stay here. For the first time, he was determined to make this move the final one. No more running. No more hiding. Just them, here, living a quiet and stable life. Everything he’d wanted when he and Leandra first came here after fleeing Kirkwall.

Almost instantly, the thought began to dredge up memories best left forgotten. Malcolm winced and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying not to think about the circumstances that allowed them to get here. He didn’t want to think about the things he did for the Wardens. What happened in the Vimmarks would stay there.

More than once, the subject of Blight and Wardens had come up in his presence. More than once, someone spotted the look of contempt on Malcolm’s face at their mention, leading to awkward questions and faltering answers he knew fooled nobody.

None of that compared to the overwhelming feeling of shame every time he found himself warning Garrett and Bethany against blood magic, however.

Leandra didn’t know. If Malcom had his way, she never would. None of his family would.

He was broken out of his train of thought when Leandra herself came stomping outside, looking exhausted and grumbling angrily to no one in particular.

“That boy, I _swear…”_

“Carver?” he asked dully, naturally expecting the younger of their sons to be the problem. Carver usually was. Most of the time, Garrett was both too clever and too careful to get caught out.

Her lip curled. “No. _Garrett._ I don’t know what to do.”

Malcolm smiled crookedly. “This sounds serious.”

She shot him a hard look, brows creasing and her lips pursed to show just how unamused she was. Before long, he found himself wilting under the harshness of her gaze.

“…alright. Apparently, it _is_ serious. What’s he done?”

“Nothing.”

He blinked in surprise. That wasn’t the answer he expected, to say the least. Leandra seemed to be in such a foul mood he assumed someone had left a dead rat in the kitchen or something similarly disgusting. Never before had he seen Leandra so wound up over _nothing._

“So… what’s the problem?”

“He’s done _nothing!”_ she hissed furiously. _“How_ long have we been here?”

“About a week?”

“And _what_ has Garrett done in that time? _Nothing!_ He hasn’t helped in the house or the garden, hasn’t bothered going into the village – Maker, he hasn’t even _unpacked.”_

“Really? That doesn’t sound like him at all. Are we talking about the same Garrett? Twelve years old, likes to be helpful, mildly sarcastic on occasion, tiny bit hyperactive, has a mildly unhealthy obsession with dragons?”

 _“Malcolm,”_ she chided. “This is _serious.”_

“Okay, so it’s serious. What do you want me to do about it?”

 _“Talk_ to him. _Please._ He listens to you.”

“No he doesn’t. Why would he listen to me?”

“Because when last I looked, you were his father,” she reminded him scathingly.

“You know, sometimes I wonder…”

 _“Cute,”_ she growled.

“Still pleased to have avoided marrying a de Launcet?” he asked brightly. “No regrets for having run away with the oh so charming and ruggedly handsome apostate rather than live in the lap of luxury?”

“Keep down this road and soon there _will_ be,” she shot back harshly, in no mood to play along.

He held up his hands defensively. “Alright, fine. Talking to Garrett now.”

Leandra watched him with a hard glare as he backed himself inside, carefully closing the door before he spun on his heels and headed towards the bedroom Garrett had claimed as his own.

He didn’t want to do this.

He absolutely did not want to do this.

There were no words for how much he didn’t want to do this.

Malcolm let out an exhausted sigh before cracking open the bedroom door and peeking inside. “Garrett?”

The boy in question was sprawled out on the bed, staring aimlessly at the ceiling, silently weaving small sparks of energy around his hands. He didn’t respond as the door was gently pushed open, and refused to acknowledge his father’s presence there. Malcolm leaned in the doorway, not sure what to do.

For what felt like an eternity, they stood in an odd sort of standoff, each waiting for the other to break the silence. Malcolm didn’t imagine he’d have to wait very long; Garrett was generally chatty and had a known distaste for silence. However, as the seconds dragged by with nothing being said, he found himself doubting whether that was true. Suddenly, he began to wonder if he truly knew his son at all.

His eyes flicked up to the energy that crackled and sparked in Garrett’s hands, quickly growing and becoming more and more volatile. It was beginning to get to a point where it became dangerous, and Garrett clearly wasn’t concentrating like he should have been.

Normally Malcolm preferred to give the benefit of the doubt, but he couldn’t ignore how the cackling energy in his son’s hands put him on edge.

“Keep that up and you’re going to destroy the house,” he noted dryly. “Then we’ll have to move. Again.”

At the sound of his father’s voice, Garrett’s hands clenched and he sat up as the energy quickly dissipated around him. He glanced up warily, clearly expecting to be admonished.

“I had it,” he said after a brief pause.

Malcolm’s eyebrows rose incredulously. “Really. Because even if we’re ignoring the fact that you shouldn’t be casting by yourself-”

“Never stopped you, did it?” Garrett cut in dryly.

 _“I’m_ not an apprentice,” Malcolm pointed out.

“Technically, neither am I.”

 _“Technically,_ no, you’re not. But you _are_ a child, and you _are_ still learning. You know how dangerous-”

“I _had_ it!”

“And that’s exactly why you let it get to such a dangerous level in the first place?” Malcolm snapped back, a little more aggressively than he intended. He just couldn’t believe his own son would be so wilfully reckless with magic. “You can’t _take_ those risks! Not here.”

“What difference does it make?”

“Do I need to remind you what happened last year?”

Garrett didn’t look at him. “Beth had a fit and we moved. So what?”

That was… not how Malcolm would have put it. What happened had not been Bethany’s fault – he’d spent the better part of the past year assuring her of that – but it had caused quite the spectacle and forced them to leave in hurry, before anyone caught onto them. It had been a close call; far too close for comfort. No one was keen to go through that again.

 _“So,_ we’d rather not do it again,” he answered tiredly. “Gare, you _know_ this. We’ve been over it about a thousand times.”

That earned him a quiet grunt and nothing else. Malcolm sighed dramatically and ran a hand through his hair. Was this going to be all their conversations in the future? Was he doomed to one-sided arguments from here on out? Oh, he was _so_ looking forward to having teenagers. Finally, something he dreaded more than templars kicking down the door.

“Well, you need to unpack, at the very least.”

Garrett’s lip immediately curled at his words and he shifted just enough to watch Malcolm in his peripheral vision.

 _“Why?”_ he bit back scathingly. “We’re not staying. We never do.”

Malcolm blinked several times in surprise at the remark. He hadn’t known what to expect, but it wasn’t this. For what felt like eternity, neither of them moved, neither of them said anything as Malcolm failed to collect himself and Garrett stared resolutely in the opposite direction.

“Garrett-”

He shook his head. “The _second_ I start getting comfortable, we’ll move. Because that’s what we do. Every time, something happens, and we end up running halfway across the country to some _new_ backwater no one’s ever heard of.”

“Garrett. We’re going to stay here. We decided.”

“So what? _This_ time it’ll work out? _This_ time it’ll be different?” he suggested angrily. “You keep saying that. What about South Reach? Elmridge? Honnleath? Greenfell? Harper’s Ford? Rossleigh? You said we’d stay in all those places too. Every time we move, you say it’ll be the last one, and it _never_ is.”

“This is different.”

Finally, Garrett’s eyes flicked up to his father’s face, his expression remaining just as unimpressed as before.

“You say that _every time_ we end up somewhere new,” he sighed. “When has it ever been true?”

There was a silence as Malcolm struggled to think of what to say in response. There was nothing he really could say. This was not something that could be handled in just a few words. Clearly Garrett had been thinking this for a while, and it was only now he decided to say anything about it. Problems like that don’t just go away, and Malcolm knew he didn’t have the patience to try.

“Be that as it may,” he began slowly, “you still have to unpack. All this gloom and despair can at least wait until the house in order.”

“Or…?

 _“Or,_ I’ll have to think of some cruel and unusual punishments,” Malcolm replied cheerfully. “And you know how creative I can be.”


	3. 9:25 Dragon

The Lothering marketplace was bustling with people as per usual, with residents and passers-through alike, all perusing the goods of each of the stalls. People smiled and nodded at Malcolm as he made his way through the throng, many even greeted him by name. He tried to hide how euphoric this made him – before Lothering, they’d never stayed anywhere long enough to become part of the community. Before Lothering, it had never been safe enough to do so. For the first time, the people of the village where he lived actually knew him.

He supposed after five years, it had become somewhat inevitable. This was by far the longest they’d stayed anywhere. For the first time since leaving Kirkwall, Malcolm actually felt as though he _belonged._

He stopped in front of one vendor, gazing over the goods available for sale while racking his brain for what Leandra had requested. Normally she would be the one to come out shopping, but she’d been struck down by a fever these past few days. So he’d told her no, told her to stay in bed, that he and Garrett would get everything she needed. He had assumed that, between the two of them, they could remember everything on the list.

Besides, she was constantly pressuring them to spend time together. Malcolm wasn’t sure how their almost relentless training regime – whether it was for magic, swordplay, or literally any other skill Malcolm thought might be useful – failed to count, but somehow that never seemed to cut it for Leandra.

 _He doesn’t need a teacher, Malcolm,_ he could imagine her chastising him. _He needs his father._

He glanced over to the other side of the marketplace, where he eventually spotted Garrett leaning on a table with his back facing him, having some kind of heated argument with a merchant.

Malcolm sighed and slowly made his way over, suddenly remembering why outings such as this weren’t a common occurrence. Garrett had a unique talent of either irritating or picking a fight with just about anyone and everyone. It was no doubt a personality quirk he’d picked up from Malcolm himself; an unfortunate side effect of a strong moral code. It made him a good mage. It didn’t make him a good negotiator.

Oh yes. Quality father-son bonding time.

Suddenly, he felt a vague prickle of the back of his neck – the unmistakable feeling of energy being pulled through the Veil.

Panic surged through him.

Without stopping to think, Malcolm ploughed his way through the crowd, charging towards his son. He couldn’t believe this. He couldn’t believe this was happening. Garrett knew better. He was _supposed_ to know better, at any rate.

 _“Garrett!”_ Malcolm had to stop himself from outright screaming as he reached him.

Immediately, Garrett whirled around at the call of his name, the magic that had built up in the air around him quickly dissipating. Malcolm didn’t wait. He grabbed his son by the upper arm, gave a rushed apology to the merchant, and quickly steered them both back through the crowd, out of the marketplace and the village as a whole.

In that moment, that’s all that mattered. Escape.

He was so focused on removing both himself as Garrett from the situation that he barely noticed his son’s protests as the distance between them and the village grew. They needed to get away, get out of sight, out of mind. They needed to leave, run as far away as possible. _Now._

Finally, Garrett dug in his heels, fighting against Malcolm with just about everything he had. “Let _go_ of me!”

Malcolm stopped. He did not release his son, simply forced him to a halt while never loosening his iron grip on the boy’s arm.

“What were you _thinking?”_ he had to stop himself from outright screaming. “Garrett? Were you thinking _at all?”_

Garrett refused to look at him. “He was gouging us, he _knows_ we can’t-”

“So you decided to start _casting?!”_ Malcolm demanded furiously. _“In the middle of the marketplace?_ Do you have _any_ idea what you’ve just _done?_ We could lose _everything_ because of this!”

“I lost control for one _second!”_ he argued.

“You can’t afford to do that! If anyone had seen-”

 _“Andraste’s tits,_ nobody _saw!”_

Of course he would say that. _Of course_ he would assume they were safe. They nearly always were – Garrett had no other experience to go on. Every other time, they’d just left the instant they caught wind someone might’ve suspected something. Every other time, it had been fine, and by the time templars showed up at their door, they were long gone, and no one knew them well enough to track them down, or spot them in a crowd.

But this was different. They’d been here too long. Here, people knew them. It wasn’t quite as simple as simply relocating halfway across the country.

They were left with two choices. Leave Ferelden entirely, or stay put and face whatever storm came their way.

Could they stay?

Could they _risk_ it?

Malcolm didn’t know. He couldn’t tell. He knew that if they left, it would draw suspicion. But if they didn’t, if they stayed… if people started talking…

Anxiously, he glanced back at the main body of the village, trying to work out what the best course of action would be. For the first time in his life, he was torn. Usually, they’d just leave. Pack up and find a new hamlet to settle in and go back to pretending everything was fine. But Lothering was different. It was all different now. They’d been here too long.

No. He wouldn’t force his family through that again – he’d promised them, promised _himself_ that they’d stay here. They’d just have to act like everything was normal. Anything else would draw suspicion. And if the templars kicked down their door, then at least he wouldn’t be battling them alone. Bethany was more than competent, always careful to keep herself in check. She may even be able to slip by unnoticed, regardless of what happened. He wouldn’t have to worry about her. And Garrett…

He fought the urge to groan.

Garrett was reckless.

Garrett was an _idiot,_ who took his skill for granted and didn’t seem to understand the reality of his situation – either that, or he purposefully ignored it.

And he was also seventeen.

Safe to say this was _not_ the kind of teenage rebellion Malcolm had been expecting. He’d thought his son more mature than that. He’d dared to hope that maybe, he’d raised his children to have a better grasp of reality.

His lip curled. “You wilfully endangered yourself and your family. You reacted to a situation you easily could’ve walked away from.”

Rather than reply, Garrett kept his head down, face flushed with anger, and remained silent.

“We are going home right now,” Malcolm bit out. “And _you_ can be the one to explain to your mother why we may have to leave.”

Again, he was met with nothing but a petulant silence. Somehow, that didn’t surprise him. Garrett’s usual reaction to being scolded was obstinate silence, it always had been. It was unlikely that would ever change.

“I’m _never_ going to be good enough for you, am I?” Garrett asked quietly, after what felt like an eternity.

“Don’t pull that. This is on _you_ and no one else.”

“I made a _mistake!”_

“We can’t _afford_ mistakes, Garrett! Do you _want_ to end up in the Circle?”

For the longest time, Garrett didn’t answer.

“Maybe that’s where I _should_ be,” he murmured after what felt like an eternity. “It’d all be better then, wouldn’t it? You wouldn’t have to worry about moving all the time. I’d be out of your hair.”

Malcolm groaned. He didn’t have the time or patience for this.

“You have _no_ idea what this family has had to sacrifice to keep you safe,” he snarled, unable to contain his anger anymore. 

“Isn’t that kind of the _point?”_

“You’re not the only mage in this family.”

“And yet you never lecture Bethany.”

 _“Bethany_ isn’t reckless.”

“No,” Garrett growled. “She’s _terrified._ She’s constantly panicking about what’s going to happen. How is _that_ supposed to be better?”

Malcolm groaned. “What is this _about,_ Garrett?”

“I’m _tired_ of running!” he yelled, still pulling against his father. “I’m _tired_ of hiding all the time, of pretending I’m something I’m not, of _lying_ to _everyone_ I’ve ever met! I’m tired and I don’t want to _do_ this anymore.”

“Do you know how hard we’ve had to work for this? To stay here as long as we have? To have _any_ semblance of stability? Bethany and Carver deserve a chance at an actual childhood.”

Garrett went deathly silent at that, and not the good kind. Malcolm ran a hand through his hair and fought back a tired, exasperated groan. Here it comes. He just _loved_ having teenagers.

“You have _got_ to be _kidding me,”_ Garrett hissed under his breath. _“Bethany and Carver_ deserve stability? _Bethany and Carver_ deserve a real childhood? I need to do better because _Bethany and Carver_ deserve it?”

“Garrett-”

“You never cared about this when _I_ was young.”

“You still _are_ young.”

“I’m _seventeen!_ And it was _twelve years_ before we stayed _anywhere_ for more than a year!”

Malcolm groaned a ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not having this argument.”

“Do you _ever_ want to have this argument?”

“You’re still young, you don’t-”

“Right. I’m _young,_ so I don’t get a choice.”

“I didn’t _say_ that.”

“You don’t _have to.”_

This was somehow more infuriating than the roundabout arguments he’d had back when Garrett was little and didn’t want to do chores. Maybe it was worse now because Garrett thought he knew better. He thought he had all the answers, had it all worked out. Malcolm remembered when he thought the same thing.

It’s often when you think you know everything when you truly know nothing.

“So, what? You think the Circle will welcome you with open arms?” Malcolm asked scathingly. “You obviously don’t know the Circle.”

“It’d be better than _this,”_ he replied bitterly.

“You don’t _know_ that!”

 _“Neither_ do you!”

“I’ve been in the Circle-”

“Kinloch Hold _isn’t_ Kirkwall, alright? _Not everywhere in the world is Kirkwall.”_

Malcolm gritted his teeth angrily; he didn’t need to be told that. It also changed nothing about their argument. Whatever Garrett thought he knew, Malcolm had actual experience on his side.

“The Circle isn’t an option.”

Garrett rolled his eyes and looked away. “No. Of course not. It never is.”

_“Garrett-”_

“Why can’t you admit that maybe I’d have been better off there?”

For so long, Malcolm just stared wordlessly at his son. Perhaps he should’ve seen this argument coming – it wasn’t as if Garrett had kept his frustration over their family’s situation a secret. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t asked these questions before. Malcolm had thought he’d put these problems to rest a long time ago. It was disorientating to see it resurface after so long.

 _“Fine!”_ he shouted. “Fine. _Go,_ then. But whatever you think, you’re _not_ the only mage in this family. Your choices don’t just affect you. If you turn yourself in, you’re turning us _all_ in. Ask yourself if that’s something you can live with.”

With a furious snarl, Garrett ripped himself out of Malcolm’s grip and walked on ahead of him – not in the direction of the chantry like Malcolm half expected him to, but towards home. For an agonisingly long moment there was nothing but silence until Malcolm let out an exhausted sigh and ran after his son, quickly catching up to him. Garrett didn’t respond as he walked beside him, not when he placed a hand on his shoulder.

Malcolm sighed. “Because it looks to me like you’ve already made your choice.”


	4. 9:27 Dragon

Malcolm Hawke died with the faintest of smiles.

For what felt like an eternity, Garrett simply stood there in the doorway of his parents’ bedroom, leaning on the frame and staring aimlessly into nothing as his mother clutched Malcolm’s limp corpse and rocked back and forth, sobbing hysterically. Her cries were the only sound to be heard in the otherwise silent house, an echoing reminder of the stark reality of their situation. It was a raw, emotional side of Leandra that Garrett had never seen before and would’ve been comfortable never seeing again.

He didn't know what to do. Couldn't work out how he was supposed to react. He simply stood there, rooted to the spot, completely at a loss as his mind reeled. It didn't feel real.  _Nothing_ about this felt real. He'd long since passed into a state of shock, completely unable to process what was happening. What had already happened. One minute, his father was smiling at him and trying to crack jokes despite the overwhelmingly depressing situation they found themselves in, and the next, he just... gone. Despite the fact that this had dragged on for weeks, it had all happened so quickly. It was all so sudden and so senseless and so cruel that none of it felt truly real. Or perhaps Garrett only felt that way because he didn't  _want_ it to be real.

It felt like his fault.

 _Was_ it his fault?

If he was a better healer, if he'd paid more attention to the early warning signs that Malcolm's illness was more than a common cough, if he hadn't waited, if he hadn't been so  _damn afraid-_

 _No,_ he could imagine his father telling him.  _No, Gare. It's not your fault. There's nothing you could've done. There are some things magic can't save you from._

Garrett let out a shaky exhale that was barely audible over Leandra's wails and desperate pleas to her husband not to leave her now. He couldn't afford to start falling apart like she was. He knew that. He'd been made painfully aware of that regardless, just watching his mother grieve. Someone had to stay sane. Someone had to keep the family from tearing itself apart, to fill the role Malcolm had left vacant. Garrett was the eldest, and he was like his father in many ways - it seemed only natural that responsibility would fall to him.

Silently, he pulled away, turning on his heels and heading for the front door, anxious to get away - from his mother, from her grief, from the ashen corpse of his father that had been still filled with life just a moment ago. He didn't know what he planned to do, exactly. There wasn't anywhere he could go. No matter how far he ran, nothing would change. Garrett knew that. He'd learned that lesson a long time ago. Running solved nothing, it never had. Still, there were times when he didn't know what else to do.

A soft, cool breeze greeted the instant he pushed the front door open and stepped outside. Garrett kept his head down and moved to the side, letting the door creak shut behind him. For an agonisingly long moment, he stood perfectly still, barely inches away from the wall of the house, slowly leaning forward until his forehead met the old wooden panelling. He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to be here, in this situation. He wanted nothing more than to melt into nothingness and live in the illusion that the past few weeks were nothing but a horrible nightmare.

All of that. All of that fighting, all the running, all the lies, and it ended like this. No blaze of glory awaited his father. Just a quiet death his wife's arms after being bedridden for days. Struck down by a wasting disease like so many others. It was such a boring, mundane end for a man who had been anything but.

Now he was gone. And suddenly, for the first time in his life, Garrett felt truly alone.

Slowly, he pulled away from the wall and turned around to look out at the sunset, barely acknowledging Bethany sitting silently on the steps at his feet. He didn't know how long she'd been there. Perhaps all day. Both she and Carver had left the house that morning, neither wanting to stay and witness the end. Garrett wished he could've done the same, that he could've walked away sooner. He silently cursed himself for feeling obliged to remain, for feeling as though that's what their father would've wanted.

He sighed. He'd never thought to ask. He supposed they'd never know now.

Finally, after an extended silence as the two mages carefully ignored each other's presence, Bethany decided that she couldn't take it any longer.

"Is he...?" she began, trailing off into silence as she quickly found herself unable to finish.

Garrett didn't look at her as he answered, trying to ignore the growing lump in his throat.

"Yeah," he murmured hoarsely, slowly easing himself down so he was sitting on the steps next to her. "Yeah, he's gone."

Bethany didn't seem to have anything to say to that. She let out a shaky sigh, carefully fighting the tears that were surely welling up with every passing second. She leaned into Garrett, resting head on his shoulder, shaking a little as she fought the urge to burst into hysterical sobbing, much like their mother. Garrett wouldn't have minded if she had; it would've given him more cause to be upset himself. 

Normally, he'd try to crack a joke, to make her laugh, to take both their minds off the situation. Normally, it came to him so easily he didn't even have to think about it. But the longer it dragged on, the more aware he became that, for once in his life, he didn't  _know_ what to say. There was nothing, no words he could think of that would help. So instead he simply sat and carefully wrapped an arm around her, trying his best to be reassuring without actually saying anything. It was all he could do.

He didn't know where Carver was, only that his sword was missing - meaning he was more than likely off somewhere well away from the village, taking out his frustrations and feelings of helplessness and inadequacy on some poor, unfortunate tree. That seemed to fit in with how the younger Hawke brother tended to deal with grief. Sooner or later he'd come stomping back, and inevitably ask for an update on their father's condition.

Garrett didn't want to be the one to tell him. He couldn't.

And then there was the rest of the village...

They would send their condolences, of course - Malcolm was a well-loved member of the community - and the remaining Hawke family would quickly find themselves flooded with offers of support. Each and every one they would probably have to turn down for their own safety and security, which would raise eyebrows and feed a growing suspicion Garrett couldn't help but feel was there. He wondered how long they could go before someone figured out their secret and had the templars kick down their door. He wondered what they would do with a pair of apostate siblings, if they'd both be sent to the nearest Circle or if they'd be split up like he'd been told blood relatives in the Circles usually were. He wondered if he'd ever see his younger sister again.

No. He didn't want to think about it.

His father had been gone for all of five minutes and already he'd become a million times more paranoid.

Absently, he gripped Bethany a little tighter, pulling her in closer. He didn't know who that was supposed to reassure - her, or himself. In that moment, he wasn't sure it mattered. They were a couple of apostates on the run from the Chantry, newly without a mentor. It was safe to say neither of them felt all that secure. The future was far too uncertain for that.

"I can't do this," Bethany whispered, burying her face in Garrett's chest. "I can't  _do_ this. Not without Father."

Garrett bit his lip. He didn't know what to say. If he was being totally honest, he was having exactly the same anxieties. But he wasn't just watching out for his own magic anymore.  _He_ was the only other mage in the family now; the only other mage Bethany knew. It was his responsibility to keep her focused, to keep her safe from all the threats they both faced constantly. 

He shivered a little at the thought. He wasn't ready for that. Wasn't ready to handle that kind of responsibility.

Bethany was a good mage; strong, talented, focused. She had mastered several skills in less time than it had taken Garrett to learn the same, and displayed a true adeptness at almost every turn.

But she was  _fifteen._

And Garrett wasn't ready for that. Wasn't ready to take on that role. He wasn't ready and most of all, he  _wasn't their father._ Despite all the similarities everyone had been pointing out to him all his life, for as long as he could remember. Garrett  _wasn't_ his father. He didn't have the skill. Didn't have the experience. 

But he promised.

Regardless of everything else, he  _had_ promised, in his father's dying moments, that he would look after the others.

So he gave his sister a gentle squeeze. "Hey. It's going to be fine."

Bethany shivered a little, but otherwise didn't respond. 

 _"Hey,"_ Garrett tried again, this time carefully prizing her off him so he could look her in the eyes. "Beth, look at me."

Slowly, almost unwillingly, Bethany lifted her eyes to his. They were tired an heavily bloodshot from holding back tears all day, and she looked as though she wanted to be absolutely anywhere other than where she was. Garrett couldn't blame her. He knew that feeling all too well.

"It's going to be _fine,"_ he told her firmly. "We'll look out for each other, just like Father would've wanted. You hear me? I won't let anything happen to you."


End file.
